Taking Care of the British Government
by gopadfoot
Summary: Greg has promised Sherlock that he'd make sure Mycroft is taken care of. He gets much more involved than expected. Mycroft/Greg bromance and hurt/comfort in spades. NO slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Why am I writing this when I have at least three stories to update? Short answer: because I want to. Longer answer: I suddenly realized that I've been ignoring my favorite DI for far too long, and also I need some epic Mycroft/Greg bromine that is NOT slash. So here you go. I'll say there's one more part, but with me, you never know. There might be more, or not. Enjoy!

* * *

It wasn't what Greg would have chosen to do with the rest of his evening, not after the day he had. A shower, a strong drink, and a soft bed were much preferable to that. Yet a promise was a promise, especially when it was one made to Sherlock. It had taken some effort to get the consulting detective's trust, and he wouldn't want to break it by being flippant.

 _Mycroft Holmes, here I come,_ Lestrade thought to himself, grumbling. _Although I really don't see why you'd need a simple DI to assist you. According to Sherlock, all of England's forces are your minions, including those at the very top. Well, heeere goes._ The DI marched into St. Barts, flashed his card, and pretty soon found himself in the hospital room, face-to-face with Mycroft Holmes.

"Gregory," the government employee greeted politely. "How's my brother? Dr. Watson?"

Greg smirked a bit. The brother's might be forever quarreling, but they were both worried about each other. "They're quite well, considering the circumstances," he replied easily. He took a good look at the other man. Physically, he was very pale, but it was the look in his eyes that worried the DI. He looked haunted.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mycroft?" Greg asked sincerely. "Something to eat, or drink perhaps?"

"Get me out of here," Mycroft answered, his tone almost desparate.

"Uh, that's not quite my department. What are they keeping you in for, might I ask?"

"Some nonsense about shock. I'm perfectly fine. Someone's just out to keep me nice and miserable."

"It's not so bad here," Greg joked. "Room service, breakfast in bed, and all that. Though the food is awful, I'll give you that."

"Sherlock would argue that that's perfect for my diet," Mycroft jibed back. "Though, seriously, the noise. The chatter. The _smell._ And the _people."_

Lestrade regarded the younger man thoughtfully. "I suppose that all would be magnified with your sensory issues," he mused.

"Pardon?" Mycroft asked dangerously.

"If Sherlock has sensory issues, you must have it even worse than him. Nothing to be ashamed of, you know."

"Alright, call it what you will. Just _get me out of here!_ " His last words held a not of hysteria. Greg looked at him worriedly. "Alright. Let me talk to your doctor."

The doctor was duly summoned. "Are you family?" he asked Greg.

"A friend," he said, glancing sideways at Mycroft.

"Well, usually we'd like to talk to next of kin," the doctor began.

"I understand, but his parents are abroad at the moment," Greg said patiently.

"Anyone else?" the doctor probed further.

The DI noticed the discomfort on the British Government's face. "His brother is, ahhhh, otherwise occupied at the moment. Look, I just want to know of he can go home now."

The doctor turned to Mycroft. "Mr. Holmes, you're blood pressure is still a bit wonky, and we're a bit concerned about your other symptoms. You've had three episodes of vomiting, and one episode of near fainting. Otherwise you're fine, but it would be advisable to remain for a night of observation."

"I want to go home," Mycroft said firmly.

"Not advisable, but I can't stop you. I would suggest that you have someone drive you, and that you shouldn't be alone for the night, in case anything gets worse."

"I'll take him," Lestrade interrupted.

"Thank you, Gregory, but that's not necessary," Mycroft said politely.

"I didn't say you had a choice," Greg shot back. The two men looked at each other mulishly, until Mycroft caved. _"Fine,"_ he said, grudgingly. "As long as I get to leave this hell hole."

The DI watched in amusement as the British Government sulked like a teenager. In short order, he had the younger man bundled into the passenger seat of his car, and began driving. He let the silence stretch, peering occasionally at the younger man, who seemed to be sunken in his morose thoughts. He turned into Mycroft's street and drove up to his mansion, but the other man continued staring into space.

"We're here," he said gently. Mycroft didn't respond. Greg laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, trying to bring him back to Earth. He didn't expect Mycroft to startle so badly, that all his limbs jersey, and he nearly hit Greg in the face.

"I'm sorry," the DI breathed. "I just wanted to let you know that we're here."

He watched Mycroft compose himself in under a millisecond, and secretly admired him for that. That was one hell of an Iceman facade, but, as Greg was coming to realize, indeed nothing more than that.

"My apologies, Gregory. My mind was otherwise occupied," Mycroft said smoothly. He automatically began rooting around for something, and the DI realized he was searching for his umbrella. "Um, Mycroft, I think you might have left your umbrella at home," he said neutrally.

"Ah, of course. My bad." The government man began striding towards his house. Greg followed.

"Thank you for you assistance," Mycroft said, without turning around. "Have a safe trip home."

"You can't seriously believe that I'm just going to leave you here yourself?" Greg asked him in surprise.

Mycroft turned around, looking confused. "You did your job, Lestrade. I know my way around from here."

"No, I didn't. I said I'll keep an eye, and I meant it."

Mycroft gave him a condescending smile. "You do know I have plenty of staff who can do the job just as well," he said.

"And I also know that you'll never call them. You and Sherlock, you'll never ask anyone for help, you arrogant idiots," Greg said firmly. "I'm staying the night. I'm sure the British Government has an extra pair of pajamas for emergencies. I can take the sofa, if there's no extra bed."

Mycroft observed the older man keenly, as if deducting him for the first time. Finally, he nodded grudgingly. "Come on in," he said graciously. The DI followed him.

Mycroft stopped short as they entered the front hallway, his eyes darting to and fro anxiously. "No, wait, the security," he muttered. "I didn't get a chance to repair it..."

"Security?" Greg asked, bewildered. Mycroft shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Uh, come on up, let me take you to your room."

As he climbed the stairs behind his host, Greg realized that the man's steps were getting increasingly unsteady. At the top of the stairs, Mycroft stopped short, and stared at the paintings on the walls. Greg took a look, and was shocked to see the blood covered faces staring back at him.

"No," the younger man said, his voice quivering. "Noooo," he moaned, and made a sound as if he were about to retch. He ran into the nearest bathroom, and Greg listened to the most unpleasant sound of the British Government puking his guts out. On instinct, he ran towards the bathroom.

The door had been left ajar. Mycroft was sitting in the floor, his shoulders slumped, his face gray. "Get...get me out of here," he whispered frantically. "I can't..."

"What is it?" Greg asked gently, kneeling beside him.

"The East Wind is coming. Coming to get me..." The man replied, as if in a trance.

Greg stood up, and held out a hand, which the other man reluctantly took, and helped him get up.

"Well, since this place doesn't seem to be agreeing with you, I think we should try my place," he said, keeping his tone light. "I have some tea and biscuits, too, if you're in the mood." While talking, he gently steered the other man towards the door.

Something was off about this house, Greg realized, and it was getting to Mycroft. Perhaps it was reminding him of the events that had occurred earlier in the day. He got a nearly unresponsive Mycroft back into his car, and began driving.

After only two minutes, Mycroft snapped back to himself. "Detective Inspector," he called to him, a sneer in his voice. "Kindly return me to my home. I had a mild digestive issue, but I am perfectly fine now. There's no need for your unnecessary concern."

Greg didn't answer, only silently drove on until he found a place to park temporarily. Then he shut off the engine, and turned to Mycroft with the stern expression he always used on suspects. "Mycroft Holmes, please tell me, how long have you been suffering from PTSD?"


	2. Chapter 2

Greg had the satisfaction, for the first time in his life, to see Mycroft Holmes remain speechless.

"I'm not an idiot, Mycroft, despite what your brother may say. I've seen some of my men and women develop it after traumatic cases. Now, I'd like an answer to my question, or we can take this to the professionals." After working for over a decade with both Holmes's, Greg knew well enough when to call their bluff.

"I, I suppose it's been an eventful day, and the excitement might have been to much," Mycroft said carefully. "I do appreciate your concern," he added, with a hint of his usual condescending tone.

"Alright, let's leave it at that for now," Greg said knowingly. "You'll agree that having some companionship for the night is safest for now."

Mycroft nodded curtly, a sour expression on his face. Greg smirked, and continued driving.

Mycroft was quiet, very quiet, until they arrived at their destination. His silence continued when the DI offered him a fresh change of clothes, and his modest guest bedroom. He took the preferred towel without a word, and entered the bathroom to shower. Greg sat down at the kitchen table and watched the clock. Mycroft was in the shower for a good half-hour, probably trying to wash off the memories that clung to him like a bad smell.

Finally, the younger man emerged, refreshed, but looking exhausted. "Tea?" Greg offered, and the other man nodded distantly. The two men sat by the table in silence, as the kettle boiled. When it finished, Greg served the tea in his chipped mugs (he was a bachelor now and rarely entertained), along with a packet of slightly stale biscuit. The DI was glad that Mycroft was too distracted to care about that. He probably never drank out of anything but overpriced China.

"You know, your family always continues to surprise me," he remarked. Greg didn't want to push the issue, but felt that ignoring it would be even worse. Perhaps addressing some of his traumatic memories would help Mycroft get a handle on himself.

"As they do me," Mycroft said quietly, smiling wryly.

"Hmmmm, yes, that's true," Greg agreed.

"It was my fault," Mycroft blurted out.

Greg didn't do anything as dumb and futile as to contradict him. "If you say so," he said.

"I involved Moriarty," Mycroft added, forcefully, as if begging Greg to understand.

"You've told me about that," Lestrade said noncomitally.

"Then you understand that I bear the blame for everything that happened."

Greg paused a moment. "And if you do?" he asked.

Mycroft looked confused. "Then you should know about it, obviously. Then you won't feel the need to be "nice", or "helpful," or whatever you're trying to be."

"Why?" Greg asked him bluntly.

"Because... because I have blood on my hands," Mycroft whispered.

"Yeah, well, so do I. So does almost everyone I work with."

For the second time that night, Greg watched Mycroft Holmes lose his tongue.

"What, you think I never made mistakes? Never miscalculated? I can tell you stories of people who died because I missed some clues. I can tell you stories of my own men and women who were killed because I sent them into situations they weren't equipped for. I don't even have to do that. You can just look at my files."

Mycroft hesitated. "I hear what you're saying," he said slowly. "But this, this was my biggest responsibility. To make sure that my sister never again unleashes destruction upon the world. And I failed. I was stupid, I was blind, and I failed."

More than the words he said, the detective was disturbed by the haunted look in Mycroft's eyes. "You and I need to have a little talk about your carrying-the-world-on-my-shoulders complex, Mr. British Government," Greg said softly. "But now isn't the time for it. I think you could use a good night's sleep."

"You are beginning to sound remarkably like Mummy, and that's not a compliment, I assure you," Mycroft muttered.

"Well, since your mother isn't here, someone's gotta say it," Greg shrugged. "Sleep well."

"Goodnight, Gregory," Mycroft bade him, and headed towards his room. "Mycroft," Greg called after him, "You know I never had a problem being straight with you. If I tell you that my opinion about you hasn't changed, you should believe me."

Mycroft smiled bitterly. "I don't think your opinion of me has ever been very high," he replied. Greg looked on in concern as the younger man disappeared into his room.

* * *

It wasn't like he wasn't expecting it, thought Greg, but it was nevertheless startling to be woken at four AM by the sounds of his houseguest screaming in his sleep. Greg padded gently to Mycroft's closed door, listening, unsure if he should interfere. The screaming went on for a few minutes, before it suddenly stopped.

Greg then heard Mycroft breathing in pants, and then the sound of him getting up. The DI backed away from the door, which slowly opened. Mycroft emerged, looking more rumpled and confused than he had ever appeared to the DI.

"There's more tea, if you'd like some," Greg offered.

"I apologize for disturbing your sleep," Mycroft said frosting.

"Yeah, well, can't say it was unexpected. To be honest, I've had my moments, too."

The DI settled his guest at the table and once again began making tea, the ubiquitous British cure-all.

"You're acting even more like Mummy now, and that's quite disturbing."

"No, I'm not. Making tea is a national preoccupation, and it's perfectly natural for me to make tea."

"For your houseguest, after a nightmar?" Mycroft asked sarcastically.

"I think that being taken care of once in a while can be a good thing. I would hazard a guess that you haven't had that in a while."

They sipped their tea in silence, Mycroft appearing lost in thought.

"There was a fire in our old house, you know," the younger man said randomly.

"Uh huh," came the answer.

"My parents didn't believe Eurus had actually killed Victor at first. She was only six years old."

Greg nodded silently.

"Then she burned our house down. We were trapped. I heard Sherlock screaming from his room, and I ran to him. We couldn't get out. The flames were at the door."

"Oh, God," Greg breathed.

"I jumped, with Sherlock in my arms. Got knocked out. I took the brunt of the impact."

"I see," said Greg simply.

"There was an investigation afterwards. It was proven that Eurus did it. I called Uncle Rudy, and asked him to take care of him."

"That was probably the best thing you could have done under the circumstances. How did your parents react?"

"They... they weren't happy with me. They said something about being able to deal with the problem themselves, and there was no need to involve my uncle."

"Ah," said Greg. "That explains a lot."

"Explains what?" asked Mycroft, confused.

"Why your uncle confided in you, and gave you the responsibility. Also, why you feel that your sister is solely your responsibilty."

"She is. There's no one else."

"There _was_ no one else. There is, now. You have Sherlock, who has grown up a bit since then. I'm sure there are others you can trust."

"Perhaps. It's not like I did a good job of it, anyhow."

"Debatable. She was seated safe and cared for for decades. Today's events, however tragic, were contained, and didn't devolve into a catastrophe. I do recall how you gave explicit instructions about her care that were ignored. I think those who did that were more culpable than you are."

"Moriarty was my fault."

"You were trying to save lives. And you did. Sometimes we pay a price for the decisions we make, no matter our good intentions."

"Yes, we do."

Greg leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs. "So, when did the nightmares start?"

Mycroft started. "What nightmares?"

"I don't know. You tell me. Your little brother's friend was killed by your sister, you were trapped by a fire that nearly took your life, and wounded afterwards, then you had to watch your sister being taken away, and then your parents blamed you for it. I'd be very surprised if you didn't have any sort of nightmares."

"Perhaps I did. I don't really remeber."

"Sure you don't," Greg said skeptically. "I'm supposing you were never evaluated for PTSD?"

"Who, me? Definitely not. I was fine. Eurus needed major treatment. So did Sherlock, for different reasons, of course."

"One thing I've learnt in my life, is that when a Holmes says he's fine, you need to assume the opposite until proven either way. The second thing I've learnt is that a Holmes will sacrifice himself to save the world, but will never, ever ask for help. I don't care that you probably consider me just another idiot, I'll do my part. You are not fine, and you can use some help, and I'll bloody make sure you get it, even if you end up kicking and screaming all the way."

"I've changed my mind," Mycroft muttered. "You're not like Mummy. You're much, much worse."

* * *

 **A/N:** I can leave it here, or I can do another part where Greg speaks to Mycroft about his relationships with Sherlock and John, and perhaps speaks to those two about Mycroft. Let me know what you think:)


	3. Chapter 3

The morning arrived none too soon for the two men, who didn't really manage to sleep peacefully after their intense conversation.

Mycroft somehow managed to look spiffy while wearing yesterday's clothes. He waved off offers of coffee and breakfast. "I really do need to leave as soon as possible. There is plenty of work waiting," he said, somewhat grimly.

"I hope they feed you over there," Greg said, only half-joking.

"Your hospitality was much appreciated, Gregory," Mycroft said formally, ignoring his comment. "If I may impose on you once more, I'd like to ask for a favor."

"Which I'm sure I dare not refuse," Greg responded jovially.

"Will you look after Sherlock for me? I'm sure he needs it, even if he will pretend he doesn't."

Greg stared at him, open-mouthed.

"What?" said Mycroft defensively. "This isn't the first time I've asked that of you. Surely you don't find it surprising that I want him to be looked after?"

"You know what Sherlock told me last night?" the DI asked. "He said, 'Make sure Mycroft is taken care of. He's not as strong as he thinks.' "

Mycroft's expression changed to something indefinable. "Sherlock said that?" he asked quietly. Then the British Government narrowed his eyes. "I should have known that was why you showed up. I certainly wasn't in top form yesterday, was I?"

"That's really not the point, Mycroft. I came, and stayed, because _I_ wanted to. I don't just do what your brother tells me to," Greg answered, feeling a strange kind of deja vu. "The point is, you both care for each other, in a very similar way."

"Sherlock-" Mycroft broke off. "I know. I know he cares."

"If I may be so bold as to ask, why don't you contact him yourself?"

"I'm not quite sure my brother would be amenable to my presence at the moment," Mycroft answered neutrally.

"I don't get you two," Lestrade sighed in exasperation. "Either way, I'll do as you requested. Oh, and expect a visit from me this evening. A sort of follow-up visit."

Mycroft shook his head. "I won't be at my residence tonight. I shall probably sleep over at the office."

"'Then I'll meet you there."

Mycroft looked at him for several moments, then gracioutlying nodded. "As you wish, DI Lestrade. As you wish."

* * *

THe DI decided to pay Sherlock a visit before going on to the Yard. He tracked him down to a hotel, where the consulting detective and Dr. Watson had spent the night.

"Greg," Sherlock greeted him. "We were just about to come over to your office. There are plenty of loose ends to tie up, aren't there?"

Greg felt a rush of warmth at hearing his first name pronounced so casually from Sherlock's mouth. He had never really bought into the I-keep-on-forgettting-your-first-name-despite-having-heard-it-thousands-of-times-and-being-a-genius-to-boot. He knew that Sherlock did it to annoy him. Nevertheless, he was glad the consulting detective had become enough of a freind to drop the act and acknowledge their friendship.

"I'll give you a ride," he offered.

The trio were soon settled into the office, and Greg ordered some breakfast for all of them.

"So how's Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.

"Dealing with things. Like all of you are, I suppose."

Sherlock frowned at that. "Can you find out about Eurus? I want to make sure she's alright, or as alright as she can be."

Greg was once again impressed by the maturity Sherlock was showing. "That's really your brother's department. I suppose I can contact him, or perhaps you should do so directly."

"Call him and let me know."

The DI was getting suspicious. "I hope you two aren't playing games with each other once again, because I refuse to get caught in the middle."

"Who?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"Nope, not gonna work with me now. Why aren't you speaking to Mycroft now? If you're really concerned, why don't you call him yourself?"

Sherlock appeared to be thinking for a minute. "Listen, it's complicated. I really appreciate that you're looking after him, but I'd prefer not to have to speak to him. You know how annoying he gets."

"Yeah, I do. But I don't like this. He refuses to call you, too, and I think it's about time you two talked to each other. For Heaven's sake, what's so hard about having a simple conversation?!"

"Greg," John interrupted. "You need to understand. Sherlock has every right to be mad at Mycroft. He's been decieving him for years, and even when we forced him to talk, he still had the gall to lie about Redbeard. Then there's the fact that Mycroft kept his own little sister locked up for _years_ in that dreadful place. So cut Sherlock some slack."

"Is that it? Are you mad at him?" Greg asked Sherlock.

Sherlock was looking very pale. "I told you it's complicated. Yes, I'm mad. I'm also pretty confused, trying to piece together the truth hiding between all the lies."

"But?" the DI asked, sensing that there's more.

Sherlock swallowed. "I can't. Just, please, take care of him, OK?"

Greg sighed. "OK. But you _will_ give me the whole story. I can't help Mycroft otherwise."

"How will that help him?" Sherlock asked diffidence.

"Because he's suffering from what happened. A lot. He will never go for professional help, as you know, so I'm all he has right now. I need to understand what's going on if I'm to be of any help."

"Oh, so _Mycroft_ is the one suffering now?" John asked sarcastically.

"Believe it or not," Greg said sharply, "Mycroft is as human as anyone else. Not only you can suffer from PTSD, John."

Greg suddenly deflated. "I'm sorry, John. That was uncalled for. I'm just very tired. I spent some whole night dealing with the affects of yesterday's events, and it wasn't pleasant."

John was gaping at him. "PTSD? _Mycroft?_ I think you got the wrong bloke."

"I know what I saw, John," Greg retorted, his voice rising once more.

"Ha, that's a good one. You know how hard we had to work to scare him enough to tell the truth? Don't tell me he's the kind of man who has _nightmares,_ for God's sake!"

"Shut up, John!" Surprisingly, it was Sherlock wholesale his temper. He exited the office and slammed the door behind him. The two remaining men looked after him in consternation.

"What?" John asked in bewilderment. "What did I say?"

"I have no clue. But what do you mean you had to scare him enough to tell the truth?"

"Just a little prank we played. In Mycroft's house."

Greg had a sudden flashback to Mycroft's house. _Portraits crying bloody tears. Mycroft retching._

He felt a headache starting to form. "Tell me everything," he demanded. "I have a feeling this is important."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** There's not a lot of Greg/Mycroft interaction here. It's mostly about Greg discovering the details of the recent traumas Mycroft experienced, and trying to understand Mycroft more. I hope to have more of their interactions in the next chapter:)

* * *

Greg rubbed his forehead. John had finished recounting the prank they had pulled on Mycroft, and how he had blurted out the truth. "I see. So, did he appear frightened to you?"

"Frightened?! I bet he actually wet himself," John replied. "I told him I had hoped as much."

"And... then you planned your break-in into Sherrinford?"

"Not quite," John shook his head. "He needed to be taught a lesson. So we told him to come to Baker Street in the morning."

"So you left him alone afterwards," Greg stated.

"Yeah. It was funny, it seemed like he almost wanted us to stay. He said something like, 'That's it? You're just leaving?' And we told him that of course, the security was compromised. I even told him to shut the window, because the East Wind was coming."

"So you terrified him, disabled his security, told him that the person he feared most was coming after him, and then left him alone for the night?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Hmmm," Greg said thoughtfully, looking at John with a scrutinizing gaze. "So it probably started then."

"What did?"

"It probably is something I shouldn't be sharing with you. Mycroft has a right to his privacy. I'm just a bit surprised at you, John. What did Mycroft do to deserve that?"

"What do you mean, he lied to Sherlock for years! Besides, that was the best way to find out the truth!"

"Well, let's leave that aside. How did Mycroft sound the next morning? Was he acting any differently?"

"Different? You bet! He was a tad more humble, especially once we made him sit in the client chair! He was forced to cooperate with our interrogation, and he didn't seem to be too chuffed about that."

"So he comes to you, prepared to tell the truth, and you two treat him like a suspect under interrogation. You don't think that made it a bit harder for him to talk?"

"Come on, Greg," John said impatiently. "You know how hard it is to get Mycroft to talk. And he still lied about Redbeard, saying he was a dog."

"Well, perhaps he was afraid to bring up that trauma so suddenly. He couldn't know how Sherlock would react."

"Perhaps he just doesn't know when to stop lying," John said sardonically.

The DI looked sorrowfully at the doctor, and felt the hurt beneath his sharp words. John had been betrayed and manipulated too many times before, and had developed a hard, unforgiving edge towards those he believed responsible. Mycroft definitely fell into that category.

There was no point in trying to defend Mycroft, or lecturing John. His purpose now was to find out how Mycroft was affected, in order to help him. He thought about John and Sherlock, and how much they must be hurting, too. As a freind, he wanted to assure that they would recieve what they needed, too.

"John, did you and Sherlock talk about what happened?" the DI asked earnestly.

"Actually, we did. Sherlock's been much more forthcoming than I expected," John said thoughtfully. "Perhaps because it was an experience we shared."

"I'm glad you have each other," Greg said sincerely.

"Yeah, it's...good," the doctor said with a small grin.

"John, is it alright if I ask you to continue detailing yesterday's events? I understand some things aren't easy to talk about..."

"No need to badger John," came a voice from the door. "Everything's on tape."

"Sherlock," both men said simultaneously.

"Mycroft can get you the copies," the detective continued.

"Alright, why don't you two take a break, have some lunch, and then come back?"

"Rosie's good at Mrs. Hudson'showed. They're settled by the neighbor, Mrs. Turner, by the way," John said agreeably. "We're actually invited for dinner."

 _Great, the boys could use some mothering,_ Greg thought.

As the "boys" left, Greg placed a call to Mycroft. The British Government spoke in his usual cool-as-a-cucumber voice, with a hint of impatience. Copies of the recordings were assured to be immediately delivered, and Greg hung up, not before reminding Mycroft of his upcoming visit.

Greg was worried about the duo re-watching the experience. "I can watch it myself," he insisted.

John was quick to reassure him. "No, I need to do it for myself. It will help me process everything."

Greg looked at Sherlock, who nodded. "Stop me whenever it gets too much," the DI requested, and began to run the recordings.

The three men sat in somber silence as the initial test was revealed. Greg kept a careful eye on the recording of Mycroft, his facial expressions and reactions. He heard Sherlock murmuring to John, and John speaking quietly back at Sherlock, but didn't attempt to listen in. He felt it best for the men to work out their traumas between themselves.

The video finished. "You were very brave, John," Greg said quietly. "You both did your best under terrible circumstances."

"We had to," John said softly. "We were soldiers."

 _But Mycroft wasn't,_ Greg thought, but didn't say aloud. Mycroft had seemed dazed, terrified, and completely out of his element. He had reacted viscerally to Sherlock's of erring of the gun. _"I will not have blood on my hands,"_ he had said. Strange, coming from a man who made daily decisions over the lives of millions of people.

Or perhaps not so strange. Mycroft might very well have taken the position he had in order to save lives. How did witnessing the disappearance of Victor Trevor affect him? Did he blame himself for not preventing it? Did he blame himself for what it did to Sherlock?

Mycroft had used his sister to prevent terror attacks on innocent people. DI he have a "save the world" complex? A new thought struck the DI. Was he terrified of turning into a psychotic murderer like his sister, and being presented wit has a gun, at his sister's urging, had triggered some of his deepest fears? _Mycroft, can anyone understand you? So cold, so aloof, and yet so fragile and human._

The way Mycroft reacted to the deaths of both the governor and his wife was what touched Greg the most. Mycroft was sickened to the point of throwing up. He had seen two people being killed, and was convinced that it was his own fault. "I am not a murderer," he had protested, yet the two innocent, dead people were tangible proof, to him, that he was.

He had watched screen-Sherlock walking over to John, and asking him in concern if he was alright. He began playing the next recording, and noticed that the two brothers lagged behind John.

"Sherlock, did you speak to Mycroft in private before this recording started?" Greg asked hopefully. Perhaps the younger brother had tried to comfort Mycroft. Perhaps he had told him that no one could be blamed, or reassured him that they were all in it together.

"Yes, I did," the detective said thoughtfully. "I asked him about the treats Eurus mentioned, suspecting that it was something that lead to our predicament. He immediately became defensive, telling me how clever she is."

"And..."

"I told him that I was beginning to suspect that he's not," Sherlock said flatly.

"Oh." Greg paused. "He might have gotten the feeling that you were blaming him," he said neutrally.

"Of course I did," the younger man scoffed, at the same time that John said, "Of course he did!"

"It might not have been the time and place for that," Greg couldn't help but admonish.

"You can understand why we were upset, can't you?" John countered.

"Yes, I can," the DI said reluctantly. He also understood one more thing. It was clear that John and Sherlock had each other throughout the entire ordeal. And Mycroft had been ostracized, blamed, and all alone.

"Well, that's in the past now, either way," Greg said placatingly. "Let's continue."

"I'm not so sure it's all in the past," Sherlock interjected.

"What do you mean?" The DI asked curiously.

"Perhaps if I would have endeavored to put his conscience at ease, whether he deserved it or not, he wouldn't have made certain decisions later on. Perhaps, if he hadn't made those decisions, I would be more willing to forgive him now."

At Greg's inquiring look, Sherlock just told him tiredly, "You'll soon see what I mean. Let's continue."


	5. Chapter 5

Greg watched in consternation as Eurus taunted her prisoners some more, and then began a new game. He watched Mycroft suddenly burst out, with unusual passion: "This is inhuman! This is insane!"

John responded with an impatient "We know, Mycroft!" and continued assessing their task with Sherlock. The two younger men were grim, but calm and determined. Mycroft, on the other hand, just looked defeated. Greg wondered at the different attitudes they experienced.

Eurus was droning on about the case, something about three brothers and a murder. Although this line was usually very much his department, the DI couldn't bring himself to care. His concern for his three friends messed took up all his concentration. Then Eurus said something that caught his attention.

"Wait, let me rewind that a bit. Did she just say what I think she said?"

The duo looked at him grimly.

Greg sighed, and reminded the footage. He listened carefully this time, concentrating on the significant parts. "Please, make use of your friends, Sherlock... you may have to choose which one to keep."

"Oh, my God," Greg sacked in a harsh breath. He then continued watching the unfolding scene. Mycroft was refusing to cooperate, to play the game. John chided him about being soldiers, about saving a plane and a little girl. Mycroft looked back at the doctor, and told him sincerely that his priorities did him credit. Eurus continued expounding on her puzzle, and Mycroft looked at her wearily, asking knowingly, "Why should we bother?" Then Mycroft did an abrupt about-face, and threw himself into solving the puzzle.

 _Mycroft, you impossible, self-sacrificing man,_ Greg thought. Of course he refused to help. He didn't want to make himself useful at John's expense. _You may have to choose which one to keep._ The way he was looking at Eurus told Greg that he understood her far more than the other two. He knew the game she was playing was unfair, and she wouldn't let them save anyone, in the end.

Yet when John lectured him, he decided to cooperate. Why? What kind of hold did the doctor have over him? Or was Mycroft trying to show the other two that he was there for them, no matter how little use his help would really be?

It seemed like Mycroft's cynicism was proven right. All three men were drowned. John and Sherlock were devastated, but John was there to encourage Sherlock, to remind him that they were soldiers, and needed to go on. The duo left together. Mycroft was once again left alone, to look at the devastation his sister had once again wrought. Mycroft looked tired, defeated, and more determined than ever.

The next scene was horrifying for Greg in a much more personal way. Molly Hooper, _their_ Molly Hooper, was being directly targeted, and was innocently unaware of it. Despite being aware of her survival, Lestrade couldn't help but clench his fists as the sweet young pathologist was manipulated to utter heartbreak.

Molly was saved, but the others were still trapped. Mycroft attempted, somewhat hesitantly, to approach Sherlock and offer some words of comfort. Sherlock didn't appear to even hear him, ignoring him in favor of yelling at Eurus.

 _What can be worse for a man like Mycroft Holmes, than being in a situation where he was helpless to do anything for the ones he cared about, even something as minor as giving comfort?_

On the screen, the men were now led into an empty room, where Sherlock wondered aloud at that oddity. Eurus's words were no less chilling for all that Greg had expected it. She pointed out that Sherlock still had the gun.

DI Lestrade prepared himself for what was to come. From what he had come to know of Mycroft, he expected the man to now step forward and nobly offer to sacrifice himself. John, the heroic, selfless soldier, would then rebut his offer, and then offer his own self on the altar. And Sherlock, poor Sherlock, would stand there, conflicted and tormented, unable to choose.

He didn't see what he expected. _Oh, Mycroft, you clever, clever bastard. But Sherlock isn't as slow as you think he is. Or perhaps he just knows you better than you think he does._ Mycroft's acting wasn't as bad as Sherlock claimed. John, at first, had swallowed it whole, and even gotten indignant at not being given a choice.

Ultimately, the selfless soldier did offer his own life, when he believed Mycroft could be of more use. And Mycroft, when his ruse was up, resorted to his last weapon. He took all the blame for their situation, for Moriarty and Eurus's planning, and shut up even John's objections with that admission.

Smiling at his brother, Mycroft waited. Sherlock proved himself somewhat less than the sociopath he claimed to be, by turning the gun to himself. Sherlock would rather blast himself to smithereens than be forced to do the same to Mycroft.

Greg paused the footage, and looked at his two visitors with an expression of paternal concern. "That was more than a bit not good, wasn't it?" he asked, his tone deceivingly light.

Sherlock and John exchanged looks. John nodded, while Sherlock looked away. "You did a good job, boys," the DI said sincerely, newfound respect in his voice.

"What did Mycroft say about... this?" Sherlock asked quietly.

Greg looked at the younger man thoughtfully, and decided to jump in. Sherlock needed to hear the truth just as much as Mycroft did. They both needed each other too much to let things hanging.

"He believes he deserves to be punished for what happened," Greg said frankly.

"Punished?" Sherlock asked tentatively.

Greg held his gaze. "Yes."

"So when he asked me to- he wanted it? He thought it was fitting for me to... just shoot him?"

Greg's answered was soft but firm. "Honestly, Sherlock, not that I can blame you, with all of that happening at once, but both of you led him to believe that he was not only expected, but obligated to sacrifice himself, and that he was at fault."

"We were all ready to sacrifice ourselves," John spoke up, defensively.

"Yes. But you two had each other, comforted each other, and needed each other. Mycroft was, at every step, blamed for his role, scolded for his anxiety, made to feel useless and unwanted, and then left alone with his guilt and angst."

"It was his choice to make Sherlock pick him!" John said, growing upset.

"John, please, I'm not blaming you, either. I'm just pointing out what lead him to make this choice. Yes, Mycroft made some major missteps. He let himself believe he could control Moriarty. He lied to Sherlock for years. Yet you both know he never wanted any harm to come to any of you, and deserves some forgiveness for his mistakes."

"He did his best," Sherlock mused quietly.

"Exactly. And he needs to hear that from you. As the party most affected, he needs your forgiveness the most," Greg looked at Sherlock resolutely.

"I thought he wouldn't want to see me now," Sherlock said quietly.

"Why?" Greg asked gently.

"Because I chose him. I didn't even struggle to make a decision. I didn't think twice about picking pointing a weapon at him at all."

"You couldn't go through with that in the end, and that is all that matters," Greg said firmly.

"No," Sherlock said stubbornly. "If I had to chose between Mummy or Dad, do you think I would have even thought about doing anything like that? Or even if I had to chose between you and John. I would have refused to even contemplate such a deed."

"Then why Mycroft?" Greg asked curiously. "I _know_ you don't hat him quite as much as you pretend to."

Sherlock toyed with his phone absently. "Mycroft was- is, I suppose, the older one, the Smart One, as he calls himself. Sometimes, I found myself in tight situations, he just stepped in and offered a solution, and I didn't think much about whether the solution was the only one, or a good one.

"You know what I am? I'm just his little brother, trying to prove that I can do everything by myself, but expecting him to rescue me when I can't. If he tells me to shoot, I'll do my best to listen, because I trust his judgement. But it was hard, too hard, and it was a sacrifice I wasn't ready to make."

"You should tell him that."

"No."

"He needs to know you forgive him, or at least don't despise him."

"I'm not so sure I don't," Sherlock snarked.

Greg contemplated his next step. The Holmes brothers were definitely not accustomed to doing anything as banal as discussing _feelings._ Nevertheless, they would have to somehow clear the air between the two men, who cared too much about each other to deserve to flounder alone when they could have each other. An idea began stirring in the DI's mind.


End file.
